


My Life As A Dog

by LiquidFix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-22 23:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiquidFix/pseuds/LiquidFix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a sad. Sherlock doesn't know what to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Life As A Dog

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](). Although categorised as Sherlock/John, it is implied and not directly stated.

Sherlock never paid the bills, even the ones he had agreed to cover when John had moved into Baker Street. John was responsible for the electricity and the television license, Sherlock had the gas and council tax bills to contend with. They halved for the water and food was supposed to be the responsibility of each individual, though it had fallen to John rather quickly to be the bringer of groceries even if Sherlock did sometimes give him his bank card when he was running low on cash himself.

“Why can’t you just set up a direct debit?” John had sighed from his armchair one morning as Sherlock breezed about the living room in a blur of coat and scarf. “I’m sick of having to stand in a bloody massive queue when I don‘t have to.”

What John had really wanted to say was “I’m sick of having to run around carrying out your errands because _I’m not a dog_ ,” but he could see from Sherlock’s behaviour that the man was agitated and that meant that his mood would be teetering on the verge of dismal that morning. To throw up such a comment would send his flatmate into a fit of rage. Or even worse - a sulk. It had been a certain Jim Moriarty that had been the first one to remark that John’s relationship with Sherlock was akin to a master and dog. Lestrade had muttered something about a poacher once not long after. Sherlock had stormed out of the train carriage and blocked Lestrade’s various numbers from both his own and John’s phones for over a week.

“I don’t like direct debits,” Sherlock had murmured while he patted himself down, looking for his mobile. He had not told John where he was intending to go for the day, only that he would be unable to make it to the post office to pay the current electricity bill (which had a lot more red lettering on it than the previous one) and that whatever was summoning him away from Baker Street did not require two people. “It’s more difficult to prove that you’ve paid it at all if you don’t deal with a real person with a name badge you can pin the blame on.”

“Maybe if you paid your share of things on time you wouldn’t need to worry about people getting on your back.” John grumbled in reply, running a tired hand over his face. Half seven in the morning after a sleepless night was entirely too early to deal with Sherlock’s tit-for-tat attitude. Not to mention he was slightly hurt that Sherlock had not even asked if John would like to accompany him with his days work.

“Oh I never worry about it.” Sherlock smirked as he located the phone that had been buried in the layers of fabric he insisted on swathing around his lithe frame. “I just don’t have time to do it myself. Here-” A gloved hand thrust his bank card at John. “Lift cash and use the change for milk and other stuff if you can.”

No more was said on the subject. Sherlock whirled out of the door seconds later and John sighed again. The post office wouldn’t be open for another hour and a half anyway, plenty of time for him to drag himself back up the stairs and try for a short sleep.

Now John was ninth in a queue that he had already been standing in for fifteen minutes. The post office was heaving with people jostling to cut through lines or find an available member of staff. Someone had been standing quarrelling about a benefit payment with a rather bitter-looking teller who sat with her arms folded behind the glass screen since John had arrived, the customer thinking that the louder and slower they shouted, the more chance their voice would penetrate the barrier and the teller would change their mind about something that obviously had nothing to do with them. Behind John, a middle-aged woman with three full carrier bags had made a habit of swaying into him every minute or so while typing slowly on her mobile which still had its button tones activated.

The electricity bill migrated from John’s coat pocket to his hands where he subjected it to a thorough creasing. Not because he was in a hurry to be somewhere else (though he was becoming increasingly annoyed with the woman and her bloody nudging and bloody phone and it would have been nice to have a day to himself) - John had patience by the bucket load and if nothing else, living with Sherlock proved so, but for the past couple of minutes he had felt himself physically slump. A wave of cold sweat shuddered through him straight to his ears and he twitched his head a couple of times as though trying to dislodge water from them.

 _Not now_ , he thought miserably as a familiar and unwelcome sensation crept over him. It shot from his ears to his eyes and he wiped at them desperately as his shoulders started to heave, his breath coming in short.

He could deal with being sick. People threw up on the street all the time, it was unpleasant and embarrassing but not particularly unusual. Nor was fainting, which John had come close to a couple of times before when he had been doing something as equally mundane as standing in a queue to pay a utility bill. But as his heart hammered so hard it threatened to shatter his ribs and his bottom lip became trapped between his teeth John knew he was about to start crying, and that was something he could not deal with at all.

A young woman with peroxide blonde hair in the queue that snaked next to him shot him a quizzical look. If John had had his old walking stick it would not have been so bad, for at least then the look would have been directed at his leg and he could have made out that that was the reason his face was contorting. Not because his heart was at risk of packing in but because his leg was sore and he’d had to stand for a very long time. John never denied that his limp was psychosomatic, but no one would ask why he walked with a stick in the same way they would ask why he was standing hunched in a doorway, heaving with sobs and hiding his face with his cuffs. The stick was a mask, a distraction from his anguish that people could look at and understand in their own simple ways.

And since he had given up the stick, Sherlock had proven to be a rather good distraction for people too but without the man at his side or his stick in his hand, John felt terribly exposed. Or lost, like a dog that had been separated from its master, that had no one to direct it or give it orders.

A red light flashed on one of the counters and an electronic announcement sounded from the line of desks. The woman with the bags crowded against him again as the queue moved forward and John lurched, his head swimming and his eyes rapidly shifting in and out of focus. He fixed them on the now wrecked bill in his hands, trying to concentrate on slowing his breathing but it was as though he had forgotten how his lungs were supposed to work and his chest fluttered sharply, contracting directly behind his breastbone. He had started crying by this point and he covered his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. His throat was dry and he felt his head roll forward under its own weight. Stuffing the paper back into his coat next to the cash he had lifted from Sherlock’s bank account earlier in the day, John suddenly cut out of the queue and elbowed his way out of the building with a jumble of “sorry” and “pardon”.

Cool October air hit John like a speeding train as he skipped down the concrete steps and sunk to a crouching position just to the side of the door, his head tucked between his legs. The noise of the passing crowds and traffic sounded washed-out and distant, as though he was listening to the world through a glass against a wall. The people too seemed to blur and drift past, none of them paying any heed of which he was thankful. He knew his face was streaked with tears, that he had turned red right to the tip of his ears and that his whole body was viciously trembling. If someone were to approach him and ask if he were okay (“bloody obvious that I’m not”) it would set him off into a full-blown panic. Then again, if he were to faint then no doubt he would end up in the back of an ambulance which was a far more preferable situation to be in. Some air and a quick check over and he would be sent on his way. There was no such quick fix for crying inexplicably, for being dragged to your knees because of an overwhelming feeling of, well, nothing.

 _I can’t even pay a bill._ He thought, his hands bunching in his hair. _Can’t run a simple errand. I should have said no, but I can’t. Not fit for purpose, not fit for_ anything.

John didn’t remember getting up from the steps. Nor did he recall finding a taxi, only that he had shoved the entirety of Sherlock’s bill money into the drivers hand and telling him to keep the lot for he could not bare to wait for the change to be counted back. Not while the front door of 221b was only a few feet away.

“Where‘s the milk?” Sherlock asked from his chair. He had taken his suit jacket off and sat with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, long legs tucked beneath him and John’s laptop settled on his lap.

John skulked straight from the living room door through to the kitchen, his head low against his chest and his back to his flatmate. “I didn’t get it.” He said bluntly, suddenly realising that he had given almost sixty pounds to the taxi driver. Guilt stabbed at him for a moment, but he shook it off as he heard Sherlock stand and pad through behind him on bare feet.

Seconds later, Sherlock was behind the smaller man as he opened the fridge and pulled out a large bottle of chilled water. “Did you not lift enough? The bill was fifty three-odd pounds wasn’t it. That’s more than enough change for bread and milk.”

John glanced at him sideways before turning his shoulders away. “I forgot.”

 _Not a lie_ , he thought to himself.

“John, it doesn’t take over two hours to go the nearest post office and pick up a couple of things on the way back.” Sherlock said quietly, a hand resting on John’s weak shoulder.

A smirk crept across John‘s face. “I didn’t realise I was out that long.”

“You left your laptop running. I seen the time of the last autosave on your blog posting page.”

“I could have stopped working on it well before I left.” He was grinning frantically now, nervously fighting to unscrew the lid from the bottle.

Sherlock took it from him and twisted it open in a second. “You don’t do that. Ever.”

“No, I don’t.” Replied John, taking the bottle and drinking deeply from it. He dared another look at Sherlock and found the man to be wearing a rather curious expression as though he were reading John like a script and the man would give him the words to say next.

“What?”

John watched as Sherlock chewed his thoughts about in his mouth before speaking. He could see that he was hastily stopping himself from pointing out that John had been crying, although it was dreadfully obvious and Sherlock grimaced whenever he had to make light of a clear fact. So instead of blurting it out, Sherlock was scrutinizing John with a look that was a mixture of awkwardness and frustration.

“You’re no good to me if you’re not well.”

“I was well enough this morning and the only thing I was good for was paying your bill for you. I‘m not a bloody dog that runs around fetching your slippers and newspaper.” John spat, irritation welling behind his eyes and the smirk dissipating into a profound frown. He wanted to lie down, now, before he fell. Surely Sherlock had noticed that too, but the taller man had danced in front of him as he turned to leave the kitchen and he showed no signs of allowing John to part from his company.

Sherlock’s face fell and his brows drew down darkly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“How is it possibly any different?” He whined, pushing past Sherlock again and wiping at his eyes with the back of a hand, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill out. “If I’m no good to you, you may as well just lead me out the back and shoot me between the eyes. It would be the kindest thing to do, wouldn’t you say?”

“You are taking everything completely out of context!” Snapped Sherlock, throwing his arms up suddenly.

John swayed slightly, inhaling sharply as his flatmate’s face slipped out of focus and the ground dropped away from beneath his legs. The bottle fell from where he had tucked it under an arm. It hit the floor with a deadening thud. Neither of them stooped to retrieve it.

Folding his arms across his lean chest as though he were anchoring them in place, the frown on Sherlock‘s face lifted a little and his lips formed a soft pout “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say when you’re like this.”.

“I’m like this all the time, Sherlock.” John uttered in a deep, shaky sigh, pointing to his temple with an unstable hand. “If I’m no good to you unless I’m well then I’m no good to you at all. Ever. I can‘t even stand in a queue for you or, or-”

John was cut off by Sherlock who raised a hand to him in order to silence him. The hand was quickly replaced by his chest which compressed against John’s face. Without thinking, John leaned into him and turned his head so that his cheek rested against the smooth, warm fabric of Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock slowed his breathing - in, out, in, out - gently coaxing John to steady his own.

 _I_ am _no better than a dog. He’s even petting me like one, taking pity on me like I’m a dog that’s hurt its paw or been scolded._

They stood like that for a while - John’s tears finally flowing over and Sherlock acting as a crutch for him. The smaller mans shoulders hitched with quiet sobs as his arms hung limply at his side, the taller one keeping his own to himself as he gently swayed on his heels. They said nothing to each other. The swimming sensation had returned and John supported himself against Sherlock as though he were a rock in a pitching ocean. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, even if John was painfully aware that his shirt would no doubt be ruined for the rest of the day and that he must have looked ridiculously weak and-

“John. Stop thinking about it. It‘s done now.”

A heavy cry hiccupped through the doctor and he pressed his face harder against the smooth, solid chest of his flatmate. A hand had found its way to his hair and took to gently stroking him. He was right, of course. Sherlock was always right. He was home now and there was no one to ridicule him or shoot him pitiful looks because a fully-grown man was crying pathetically like a child who had fallen and scraped its knee. There was only Sherlock, who looked as flustered and confused as John himself did.

He couldn’t pinpoint exactly why, but John did not feel any shame at all in crying against Sherlock. A complete stranger yes, because they would ask questions and look at him with typical, bland pity. Sherlock didn’t. He never pushed John as to why he hadn’t left the house for two days straight when Sherlock himself was guilty of doing it for even longer periods of time. He never asked why John hadn’t eaten a proper meal when he berated the taller man almost daily for shunning a structured diet. He never mentioned that John often drifted off into stupors, his eyes fixing on nothing and his breathing stopping momentarily as though he was shutting off all of his senses at once, ceasing to exist if only for a few seconds.

John was aware that he did all of these things, and there were plenty more habits that he had picked up since coming back from Afghanistan, but Sherlock never once pointed them out. Of course, the man had never seen John properly crumble beneath the weight of his reigned-in emotions, but the signs were there afterwards. He knew he would to be a fool to believe that Sherlock hadn’t seen the ghosts of a sleepless night lingering in the corners of his eyes in the mornings or the tremor that shot through him whenever something surprised him, even if it was a scene in a cheap television show or a spoon clattering off the side of a mug while stirring in sugar.

“Dogs can’t shoot guns.” Said Sherlock faintly, lifting his other hand to soothe over John’s arm and shoulder with wide sweeps. “They can’t make cups of tea either.”

A sharp laugh burst out of John at the mental image of a growling terrier standing next to Sherlock holding a revolver in its mouth while the man (wearing a deadly serious expression) sipped delicately from a china tea cup.

“And dogs don’t cry.”

Nodding, John exhaled deeply and allowed himself to smile a little. “I think I’ve ruined your shirt.” He said to Sherlock’s chest, unwilling to detach his face from where it nested against the not-so-crisp cloth. His face was a mess and the shirt would not be much better.

“Well it’s not as though you’ve chewed it to pieces. And believe me when I say the liquid contents of your face is not the worst thing I‘ve ever had to wash out of a shirt.”

“That disturbs me a lot more than it should.”

“A crying, gun-wielding, tea-making dog would disturb me a lot more. I wouldn’t ask you to do something I didn’t think you were capable of.”

“Even if I’m not capable of paying a bill? Or walking home by myself so I end up paying £60 for a £10 taxi ride?”

“You can pay me back later.”

“Yeah.” John replied, his arms finally coming up to rest on Sherlock’s whip-thin waist. “Because dogs don’t have bank accounts.”

“No,” Sherlock said, his head falling to meet John’s choppy hair. “They don’t. And I don‘t ever want to hear you say or see you think such a thing ever again. That‘s a warning. You are my doctor and that‘s where you begin and end. Understand?”

 _My doctor_. John liked that. “What will you do if I start to think I am a dog?”

Sherlock gently pried his doctor away from his chest and turned ever so slightly to the side without looking at the state of his usually pristine clothes. “Stick a collar on you and force you to follow at my heel on all fours.”

“Now that,” John sighed, adjusting himself as he bent to pick up the abandoned bottle of water. “Doesn’t sound like much of a threat at all.”

“Not unless I made you beg.” Sherlock replied lowly, stooping to John’s level as the shorter man righted himself.

A fresh panic swelled in John’s throat, but he swallowed it down quickly and rose to meet the world’s only consulting detective. “Which of course depends on just _what_ you are making me beg for.”


End file.
